


Wines, Vines, and Veils

by fennelseed



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Blindfolds, F/M, Hobbit Slash, M/M, Party Games, Pre-Quest, Tie Kink, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 09:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fennelseed/pseuds/fennelseed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(A reposting; originally written in 2004.) Frodo accidentally enrolls himself and Sam in a sex game at the Brandy Hall Grape Harvest. Oops. Nothing for it but to make the best of the situation, you know?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wines, Vines, and Veils

**Author's Note:**

> We know good Shire wine comes from the Southfarthing, but I've decided grapes can grow in Buckland as well. That said, this is clearly just a plot device to enable hobbit smut.
> 
> Warnings: het content. Hobbits engaging in unhygienic promiscuity that should not be imitated by readers. Reckless mix of religious ceremonial features (quasi-Dionysian rites, seven veils, etc). Attempts to read intellectual depth into fic strongly discouraged.

Was Frodo imagining things, or had Pippin snickered into his sleeve upon seeing Sam? But he hardly had a moment to suspect it, for a second later, his young cousin was hugging him and saying, "Welcome, Frodo! Have you missed Merry's queer old Hall?"

"Not very much," Frodo joked. He cast a fond look up the face of Brandy Hall, which, after years of his cozy country life in Bag End, looked like the entire town of Hobbiton stacked up into one hillside. It was teeming with activity: servants and gentlehobbits alike tramped in and out with armloads of fresh vines, boxes of grapes, and (of course) barrels of wine. The married mistresses and their children were commandeering the vines and decorating the Hall, inside and out. Serving lasses dashed around with baskets of laundry, and leaned out of windows to view the newcomers. As Frodo looked up, an auburn-haired one with pretty dimples sent him a wink before giggling and ducking out of sight.

"Frodo!" Merry's greeting diverted his attention. Before Frodo knew it, he was being embraced and spun around, by a Merry wearing an alarmingly purple waistcoat. "Welcome home!"

"You look just the color of the grapes," Frodo laughed, pinching the waistcoat.

"We'll get you dressed up proper, too." Merry looked aside for Frodo's companion, and seemed startled to find Sam waiting there. "Oh! Hullo, Sam. So you've come as well?"

"Mr. Frodo invited me, sir. You look to have a fine harvest this year."

"Er - yes! Yes, thank you, Sam. Er, Snowie will show you below-stairs and get you set up. Snowie! Snowdrop!"

A buxom serving lass, with masses of dark hair unbefitting her name, rushed down the front steps and caught up Sam by the arm. "Come on, then! I'm Snowie." She glanced coquettishly at Frodo and cooed, "Ooh, ain't your master a fine one! They'll be fighting over a place on his list tonight."

"Snowie!" reprimanded Merry, pinching her on the rear.

Snowdrop giggled and hauled Sam away. Sam had a moment to shrug, wide-eyed, to Frodo before being pulled into the Hall.

Merry and Pippin immediately rounded on Frodo, grinning, eyes alight, as if they had just learned a fabulously scandalous secret.

"Frodo! I never knew!" Pippin said.

"Samwise! Really!" Merry joined in. "Must say, he is looking rather handsome these days. You sly creature." Merry punched him on the arm.

"What are you two on about?" Frodo asked, bewildered.

"He is the servant you asked along, isn't he?" Pippin asked, glancing around as if for any other servants Frodo might have brought along.

"Yes."

Merry's face shifted into a look of mild alarm. "And which part of 'Bring your most desirable servant' did you misunderstand, dear cousin?"

"Sam is my most desirable servant," Frodo insisted. "He does fine work. And I don't really have any other servants. There's the girl who does the wash some weeks, but I hardly know her..."

Now Merry and Pippin looked as if they had both come down with headaches. They groaned; Pippin put his hands to his temples, and Merry rubbed his eyes.

"Frodo," Merry explained, as if about to teach a child the alphabet, "you know what goes on at the Grape Harvest, don't you?"

"The servants get to...play games with the masters?" Frodo said, feeling terribly adrift.

"Don't you remember those games? From when you lived here before?"

"Yes. There was dancing, and they stamped on the grapes, and they brought out the wine that had been aging for two years, and there were kissing games; something about blindfolds or veils..."

"The veils," Pippin interjected. "What do you remember about the veils?"

"You...had a certain number of them, wrapped about you, and you gave one to each person you wanted to kiss? Something like that..."

Merry spun away and paced a few steps, as if exasperated beyond endurance. He returned to Frodo, hands on hips. "Yes. That's how you do it. If you're  _twelve_."

"We play the grown-up game of the veils now," Pippin said.

"You two aren't grown up," Frodo said, looking from one of them to the other. "You haven't come of age."

"It's for tweens and unmarried folk," Merry explained, slicing his hand down through the air and hitting it against his other palm for emphasis. "And their favorite servants. The ones they want to--" He paused over the word, teeth set, eyes darting aside for listeners.

"Tup," Pippin helpfully whispered.

Frodo felt dizzy. "Oh, dear."

"No one has to do it," Merry quickly added. "But the gentlefolk each get their own room, they get wrapped in seven veils apiece--wearing nothing under them, naturally--and then seven of the servants, one by one, come to visit them."

"And maybe tup them," Pippin said again.

"Seven?" said the aghast Frodo. "You sleep with seven servants? In one night?"

"Keep your voice down," hissed Merry.

"What for? It would seem everyone in the Shire knew this but me!"

"You don't really do it with all seven," Pippin said. "Most of them just tease you, especially at first."

"Yes," Merry resumed. "Each servant takes one veil off you."

"Oh, and then there's the eighth veil, over your eyes," Pippin pointed out.

"Right, well," Merry conceded, "the seventh servant has the option of taking that one off too. But it's up to them."

"What--" Frodo started, then rerouted the question. "How--where was I--what do I do now?"

"Well, obviously you need to get changed. You can't wear these clothes to dinner." Merry struck Frodo's traveling coat with the back of his hand.

"No! About Sam! I have to get him out of there. He couldn't have known. I never meant..."

"If he didn't know before, he knows now," Pippin remarked. "Snowdrop will have told him, just as we're telling you."

Frodo groaned and covered his face. "What must he think of me? Turning him over to the Brandy Hall gentlehobbits and their...urges..."

"He'll be fine," Merry said, sounding irritated. "For heaven's sake, Frodo, the veils game is servants' choice. He only goes into the rooms he wants to, and only does what he wants to do with the people in them."

"Servants' choice?" Frodo echoed.

"That's why it's such fun," Pippin said gleefully. "We choose the servants who participate, but they choose which of us to toy with, and how far to go!"

"It's their reward, for getting ordered around by us all year," Merry explained. "Just this one night, they do as they please to their masters and mistresses."

Frodo's mouth was now completely open in shock. "You don't mean to say that our fair female cousins are being  _raped_  by the servants of the field--"

"No no no no no," Merry snapped. "No one gets like that. Everyone has their honor. It's all consensual. Lord, can you  _ever_  have a good time?"

"I knew we should have invited him before this year," sighed Pippin.

"I must find Sam before this goes any further," Frodo said. "I must tell him I didn't know about this when I invited him, and pull us out of the game."

His cousins looked shocked. "Frodo, how rude!" Pippin said.

"And spoil his night?" Merry joined in. "Dangle a treat in front of him and then take it away?"

"Well, when you put it like that..." Frodo gnawed on his lip, dithering over his awkward set of choices. "It's all up to him, you say? He doesn't have to do it? I've only given him the  _choice_?"

"Exactly," Merry said.

"He only does it if he wants to," Pippin assured.

"Which he won't," Frodo answered. "Of course he won't."

"It's up to him." Merry shrugged.

"Unless of course..." Pippin began carefully, and stopped, as if he could not think and talk at the same time.

"Unless of course what?" Frodo shot back.

"Well, it's only...Sam might do it because he thinks Frodo  _wants_  him to," Pippin reasoned. "He seems awfully loyal that way."

Frodo's heart started racing in panic. "What?"

"That's true," Merry admitted. "I could see that."

"I have to tell him I didn't mean it!" Frodo repeated. "I don't want him to think I...I..."  _Have been daydreaming about how sweet he is and how much I'd love an excuse to roll around with him,_  was more or less what Frodo meant to say, but his face promptly reminded him, with a surging blush, that he  _had_  daydreamed such things, and fairly often lately too. But that shouldn't matter. Daydreams were not to be acted upon or spoken of, were they? That was what made them daydreams.

"You'll have a fine time," Merry said. "I'm sure you shall." The sly tone of his voice suggested he had spied the blush.

"Maybe I shouldn't participate," Frodo said, his voice faint. "Maybe I should claim I've a headache."

"No, Frodo!" Pippin insisted. "If Sam's doing it just to please you, then you have to be there!"

"Oh, this is absolutely insane," Frodo whined.

"Pippin's right, I'm afraid," Merry said. "Same as it would be rude to invite him and then un-invite him, it would also be terribly rude to invite him and then not participate yourself. It's like asking a lass to a dance and then standing her up."

"Was I absent the day we were taught this, in learning our manners?" Frodo wanted to know.

"Trust us," Pippin soothed. "You know things are peculiar in Buckland."

"I'm only beginning to appreciate just how true that is," Frodo said.

Merry smacked him on the shoulder. "You're from here as well! Don't pretend otherwise."

"In the best possible outcome," Frodo said, ignoring the unfortunate fact of his ancestry for the time being, "Sam is flattered by my invitation but opts not to participate. I get wrapped up in veils and kissed by a few of your servants, but not too dreadfully molested or manhandled. The next day I tell Sam, in light laughing words, that I had no idea what would happen, and good gracious I hope his evening wasn't  _too_  terrible? He forgives me and assures me he had a pleasant time sampling Buckland wines and learning ribald songs in the downstairs corridors. And we return to Bag End with our dignity more or less intact. Now tell me, is this the slightest bit plausible?"

"Absolutely," Merry said.

"Perfectly," Pippin said.

"All right," Frodo said after a moment.

"Lovely." Merry eased his arm around Frodo's shoulders. "Are you ready to come inside now?"

Frodo nodded sheepishly, and let himself be led indoors. It was impressive really, how much embarrassment he had got himself into before even crossing the threshold of Brandy Hall. Usually he had to be there two or three whole hours before his cousins embroiled him in something that sounded as if it should be illegal.

* * *

Dinner was a long drawn-out affair, which Frodo would have found completely unbearable if it hadn't been for the softening effect of the Buckland wines. They did help loosen the tension that tortured him whenever he thought of the festivities that were to follow, which he thought of approximately every twenty seconds. He had not had a moment to speak to Sam, who had been sucked into the cyclone of the servants' activities tonight, but he saw him a few times across the dining room. Luckily, when their eyes met, Sam smiled, a smile of bashfulness and appreciation that left no doubt as to whether he had been informed about the veils game. It made Frodo's heart pound in his throat, and all he could do was smile back, hoping it looked wry and charming, and not sickly or leering.

While Frodo was flicking around some grapes on his dessert plate, Merry jumped up and struck a wine glass with a spoon.

"Thank you all for attending the Brandy Hall Grape Harvest!" Merry announced, already slurring his words a little. The crowded table of hobbits, along with the line of servants along the wall, cheered for him. Some pounded their silverware on the table. "As we are finally drawing to the close of our magnificent feast, and are, I hope, feeling the warming effects of our many wines--" He paused while more cheers threatened to drown out his voice. Frodo had to laugh at the look of false modesty that Merry took on, bowing to his guests. "--as we are, I say, done with our feast, may I ask that all the eligible gentlehobbits at our table, and their very desirable hand-selected servants, adjourn with me to the upstairs parlor?" Merry concluded with a lascivious grin and wide twinkling eyes, rousing an even louder burst of cheers from his guests, who immediately started jumping up from the table.

The elderly and the married gentlehobbits were laughing and shaking their heads, and calling out comments about how they were going to stay well away from the upstairs rooms tonight. The children were giggling--though, Frodo thought, if they were anything like he had been, they didn't know the half of what was about to go on up there.

His limbs felt numb as he fatalistically joined the raucous exodus up the stairs. He twisted around as he ascended, hoping to catch a reassuring glimpse of Sam, but Sam and the other servants had vanished--probably to reappear from their own staircase.

When he reached the upstairs parlor, which was lit with only a few candles and festooned with green grapevines all along the walls, he was herded into a line along with the other gentlehobbits. Merry and the serving lass named Snowie were rushing about with armloads of cloth, handing out bundles of it. Snowie had changed into an exotic outfit: she wore a purplish-red sleeveless tunic of sorts (dyed in wine, perhaps), which reached only to her knees and was gathered at the waist by a narrow green sash. It dipped low at her bosom, and had enough cloth in the skirts to let her move freely, though it was nowhere near as full as the dresses of hobbit lasses usually were. Curling grapevines twined around her upper arms. A wreath of grape leaves adorned her head. Her eyes were outlined with some sort of ink, which looked to be purple, though it was difficult to tell in this low light.

Before Frodo could stare further, a bundle of cloth was shoved into his arms. "Your veils, Frodo," Merry greeted.

"How do I..." Frodo started to ask, looking at the tangled fabric, but Merry was already moving on.

"Someone'll help you; don't fret," he replied. He got the last bundle into a hobbit's arms, then hooked Snowie's elbow into his and drew her to the front of the line. "Attention, please, gentlehobbits!" Merry shouted. "Very soon you will be led into your rooms and dressed in your veils--and then very soon after that you shall be undressed of them, if all goes well."

Everyone in the line (except Frodo) hooted and clapped.

"We have a remarkably high number participating tonight," Merry went on: "twenty gentlehobbits, each of whom have chosen one desirable servant to participate with them. It's no secret who I've asked along--" He got an arm around Snowie's waist, and tugged her close, while she giggled. "--but the beauty of this game means that even I cannot know whether she'll choose to have me. May we have the servants out here, please?"

Snowie beckoned to an open doorway, and a line of twenty grinning, tunic-and-vine-wearing servants sauntered into view, to stand opposite the line of gentlehobbits. Frodo quickly found Sam among them, down toward the far end, and his breath caught. Sam looked unutterably beautiful, draped in that tunic, his arms bare, his head crowned with green leaves, his bright eyes marked and accentuated by a dark border. All Frodo could do was gaze in an enchanted panic, feeling his pulse throbbing in every inch of his body.  _For me?_  he thought.  _You did this because you thought I wanted you to?_

As if in answer to his silent question, Sam lifted his eyes, met Frodo's, and smiled shyly. His fingers lifted in a ripple of a wave.

Frodo rippled his fingers back, nearly dropping his armful of veils.

"These lovely servants," Merry shouted, diverting Frodo's attention, "have all seen the lot of you, and have picked their favorites, and worked out among themselves who they shall visit tonight. It is a secret damnably well kept, which none of the best efforts of myself or any of my cousins has been able to penetrate, any of these years."

Down the line, Pippin shouted in answer, "I came very close once!"

"Aye, we caught you at the window, we did!" shouted back a servant lass from across the room, and everyone whooped in laughter.

"We're in their hands tonight, lads and lasses," Merry went on. "They don't have to tell us who they are, nor take our orders, nor give in to our personal whims. We don't have to give in to theirs either, of course--but if we want our laundry washed without a wrinkle, and our meals prepared with our favorite spices for the next month or so, then I'd say we better!" He gave Snowie another squeeze, while everyone laughed.

"Your rooms," Merry shouted above the din, "will be private, and well furnished. As a side product from our fine harvest, we provide these little bottles--" He held up a tiny clear glass bottle. "--of grapeseed oil. Edible  _and_  kind to the skin. I'm sure you can think of a few uses for it if you put your mind to it."

_Lord_ , Frodo thought while the rest cackled and hollered again,  _what must Sam think of my family? What must he think of me?_  He ventured a glance at his servant, and caught him looking away, with a smile still on his lips. At least Sam seemed amused. That was reassuring.

"So without further ado," Merry declared, "gentlehobbits: find your black veils, and put them on!" From a heap of cloth at his feet, Merry drew out a length of filmy black. As it rippled in the air, Frodo could see a point of candlelight through it, faintly, from the flame that stood on the mantel behind Merry. Snowie caught the cloth and wrapped it around Merry's head, tying it at the back so his eyes were covered.

The other gentlehobbits were doing the same for themselves, their servants coming forward to help them. Frodo pieced apart the different veils he held, which were all either green or purple, until finding the slender black one among them.

"Shall I help you with that, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo looked up with a gasp to find Sam and his exotically darkened eyes watching him from a step away. "Oh--er, all right. Thank you." Frodo let Sam take the veil from his hands, and turned around so Sam could tie it at the back of his head. The thin fabric closed over his vision, turning the room into a dim haze of moving shadows and diffused light-points. "I had no idea what to expect, you know," Frodo said, trying to sound jovial. "Goodness, I can scarcely see through this."

"Think that's the idea," Sam said.

"I suppose so." Frodo shifted the rest of the veils, uselessly, between his hands. "Sam..." he began, and paused to get up the courage to apologize, or thank him, or at least wish him a pleasurable evening, but nothing would come out.

"Sir?"

"Do you know how I...put the rest of these on?" Frodo asked. Oh, well. Not what he'd meant to say, but getting Sam to undress him and wrap veils around him mightn't be too bad.

"Someone else'll be doing that for you, sir." Sam laid a hand on his back. "I'll be leaving you now."

"But--Sam--"

Too late. Another shadow moved between Frodo and the nearest candle, and a cool hand slipped onto his elbow. "Come right with me, Mr. Frodo," said a perky feminine voice.

"Oh. Hello. All right..." Frodo let her guide him out of the room and down the hall. He could hear the coaxing servant guides and the laughing blindfolded gentlehobbits before and behind him. Somewhere in the corridor ahead, he was sure he heard Pippin say, "Ooh! Saucy to touch me there, when I can't see what you're doing!"

Then he was pulled into a quiet room, and the closing of a door cut away the voices. It was comfortably warm. He could see the glow of a fire through his veil, and the spark of one candle in a corner, but when he turned to look elsewhere he couldn't make out more than the vaguest dark shapes. A bookcase? A wardrobe? A bed? A chest? Without seeing the details, he wasn't sure which room of Brandy Hall he was in. Not that it particularly mattered.

"Come here," said the lilting voice. She led him aside, and when he reached out a hand he found a vertical, wobbly wooden surface--a dressing screen, most likely. Her hand released him, and he heard the rustle of cloth as she moved away. "You can take off that veil for the moment," she said, from the other side of the screen.

Frodo set down his bundle of other veils, and pulled the blindfold off. He was indeed behind a dressing screen, confined against a wall, with only the firelight bouncing off the ceiling to light his way. He still could see nothing of the room or the servant lass. "All right," he answered. "Now what?"

"Drape those veils over the screen, please, sir."

Frodo untangled his collection of veils--some green, some purple; in varying widths and lengths--and flung each one over the top of the screen so they dangled like vines.

"Now let's start with you handing out your shirt and breeches, and your linens too," she instructed, a teasing voice from unseen lips.

_Here we go_ , Frodo thought, closing his eyes in resignation for a moment. "All right," he said, and did as he was told. He draped each piece of his clothing over the screen, one by one, and watched as, one by one, they disappeared, pulled down by the girl on the other side. He stood naked, arms placed protectively, clutching his black veil in one hand.

"See this one?" the lass said. One of the green veils, a wide one, jerked as she tugged the other end of it.

"Yes."

"Take that and wrap it round you like a diaper--cover up your important bits front and back, as it were."

Frodo was only too happy to do so. He was feeling awfully exposed. He yanked down the green veil and spent a minute or two swathing himself around the hips and between the legs with it, until he was adequately covered. He tucked the loose end into the rest, and said, "Finished. What now?"

"This one--" A purple veil moved. "--goes round your belly. This one--" A green veil was tugged. "--around your chest."

Frodo pulled those down, and wrapped them as instructed. They went faster, having less complicated anatomy to cover. "Where do the others go?" he asked.

"The green ones, one around each arm. The purple, one around each of your thighs. Do your legs first. You may need help with your arms. I'll do that for you, but only after you put that black veil back on."

Frodo wound the purple veils around each leg, from hip to mid-thigh, and then slipped his black veil, still knotted, back over his eyes. "All right. I've put the black one back on."

The screen moved with a whisper. The lass's voice was closer when she spoke. "Good. Don't you look a treat to unwrap! I hate to add more to you." Nonetheless, she took the two remaining veils and twined them around Frodo's arms. By the time she was done he felt like a burn victim, bandaged almost from head to toe. This was supposed to be erotic?

But then she led him across the room, and pushed him until he fell backward onto a bed. She cuddled up beside him; he felt her soft breasts pillowing against his ribs.

"What--what are we doing?" Frodo asked, his hand instinctively settling on her back.

"I'm your first," she said, lips touching his ear. "So I'm deciding which veil to take off you."

"Oh. Of course." His last word was obscured by the brush of her mouth against his.

"Hmm," she giggled in speculation, touching one veil and then another and another, her hand roaming from his arms to his chest to his legs.

"Maybe this one?" Frodo suggested, touching the blindfold.

"Can't do that one, sir," she reminded him. "Only your seventh can. Not that folks don't bend the rules a bit."

"That's right; I'd forgotten. This is my first time..."

Her hand slipped underneath the veil on his chest, stroking his skin. "Your first time?" she said, surprised. "Ain't I a lucky lass!"

"Oh, I don't mean my first  _time_." He smiled nervously. "No, not at all. Just my first, er, adult Grape Harvest."

"Oh." She settled halfway on top of him, and slid her hand to his belly instead, exploring beneath the veil there. "Would've seemed a proper waste, a handsome hobbit of thirty, never having tumbled anyone."

"Thirty-five," he confessed, "but you're right, I was actually twenty-mmff!" She had kissed him again, and he decided sharing the precise age at which he'd lost his virginity was really not important right now. It had been months--years, more like--since he'd kissed someone this way, and he was surprised at how quickly his nervousness melted into comfort with it. Before he knew it he was relaxing into the deep pile of blankets (were those grape leaves scattered on the bed beneath him?), both arms around the curvy lass, enjoying the way she felt on top of him.

Suddenly she jumped up. "Oops! Hourglass is almost done. Your second'll be here soon."

"Oh," said the dazed Frodo. "Hourglass?"

"Aye. We each get about a quarter of an hour, going by the hourglass in the room."

"Ah. Well, it certainly has been pleasant, Miss, er..."

"No names, silly," she teased. "Now, before I go..."

Frodo felt her hands at his waist, and for a moment he panicked, thinking she was going to take the most intimate veil off him, leaving him exposed for all six of the remaining servants. But no--she was only teasing. She unwrapped and pulled away the veil around his belly, and said, "There, now. That one's never comfortable anyway, after a nice big meal, is it, sir?"

"No," Frodo admitted. "Thank you. Very considerate."

"I hope the rest treat you well," she said. "I imagine they will. You were quite the desired one tonight in the servants' hall."

"Oh...well," Frodo laughed modestly.

A knock on the door saved him from having to stammer further.

"There he is," she said. "Bye, now, sir."

"Bye," Frodo said, propping himself up on his elbows and tilting his head to see if any other angles made it easier to see through his veil. All he could see were the movement of dark forms, and he heard a murmur and giggle as the door opened and shut again.

Then steps padded gently toward him.  _He,_  she had said. Frodo's heart started drumming fast. What if this was Sam?

"Well, well, sir," said a young male voice--not Sam's. Frodo relaxed again, partly in relief and partly in disappointment. "Hope you don't mind if a lad cuddles up to you a little." The mattress tipped on one side as the lad climbed onto it beside him.

"No, I--I don't mind," Frodo said.

"Didn't think so, seeing as how you invited one." It sounded like the lad was grinning.

"You've got me there," Frodo admitted.

"Well," said the lad, who now sounded a bit husky, "I count myself lucky." He leaned over Frodo, eased him down onto his back, and started nibbling at Frodo's neck.

Frodo closed his eyes--they were useless anyway, under that blindfold. Both servants so far had smelled superficially of crushed grape leaves, but the lad's bare shoulder, inches from his nose, carried a masculine spiciness while the lass had possessed something more like flowery sweetness. He was hard pressed to know which he liked better. But that trick of the lad's, massaging Frodo's neck with his mouth, was spreading heat steadily down his torso. He murmured a sound of approval, without meaning to.

"You like that?" whispered the lad.

"Yes...it's...rather nice."

"You can try doing it to me, as well." The lad's hand cupped Frodo's face, and turned it inward.

Frodo settled shaky arms around the lad's muscled body, and began kissing his neck. All the while, he wondered wildly,  _Is this the second footman? The stable-lad? That youngster I saw at the water pump? Who?_  The eagerness with which the lad wriggled up against him, causing Frodo to feel his excitement under the tunic, made Frodo think he couldn't be very old, and he prayed desperately that Merry wasn't letting anyone below twenty play this game. Could he live with himself if this turned out to be a child?

He also wondered why he hadn't worried about the lass's age. And then he knew it was because he hadn't got hard until this lad started in on him.

"Mm, I've a mind to cheat and take everything off you," the lad murmured, his hands sliding up and down the bare strip of skin at Frodo's waist.

"Oh, no, we...we mustn't cheat..."

The lad paused, and then muttered a curse. "Time's up, nearly. Well, much as I'd like a look here--" He brushed a hand against Frodo's groin, making Frodo jolt. "--I won't be giving that away to your next one. So I'll just take this..." He slid down to Frodo's left leg, unraveled the veil there, and pressed a kiss into the inside of his thigh. "...and bid you goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight," gasped Frodo. He didn't try to sit up this time when the lad left. He just laid his arm over his forehead, and caught his breath, sparing a moment to wonder whether he would have done any of this if it hadn't been for those four glasses of wine with dinner.

Then Number Three was upon him. Three was a lass again, with a sultry low-pitched giggle, and a way of straddling him and sliding up and down without undressing either of them that made the time fly by. He sighed in disappointment when she got up to leave.

"Let's make you match that other leg," she said, and whisked away the veil from his right thigh. Then she was gone, and Four came in.

Four was also a lass, who spent the allotted time teasing him by trailing one finger up and down his erection, through his intimate green veil, while they kissed. She also encouraged him to reach inside her tunic and play with her breasts, and she moaned with such pleasure when he did so that he nearly threw her onto her back and attacked her, despite being unable to see her. But then it was time for her to choose a veil, and she chose the one around his chest, and before leaving wound him up further by sucking each nipple.

Then she scurried out, and Five arrived, another lad. It wasn't Sam--in fact, the lad ingenuously told him he was a stable-lad who remembered Frodo from his years at Brandy Hall, and had always fancied his looks. Frodo thought he could conjure up a face to go with the voice, a dark-haired lightly-freckled fellow with a sunny smile. But instead of picturing that face, Frodo let himself imagine it was Sam. The lad drew Frodo's hand up under his tunic, and had Frodo toy with him, and moaned softly in Frodo's ear how good it felt. Frodo thought of Sam doing this with someone else, possibly right this moment, and had to clench his teeth in a burst of arousal and jealousy.  _Please let Sam be next_ , he thought.  _Please, please._

The stable-lad unwrapped one of Frodo's arm-veils, and, with a mischievous laugh, used it to tie Frodo's arm to the bedpost. "Bet your sixth'll like the look of that," he said. Then he kissed Frodo on the mouth, rather sweetly, and added, "Thank you, Mr. Frodo."

And Frodo left his arm tied, thinking longingly that Sam might walk in next and be deeply aroused by the sight. But of course Six turned out to be another lass, and before Frodo could get too disappointed, she distracted him by letting him feel the slick wetness beneath her skirts, with his free hand. "Oh," he gasped, his body straining and reminding him urgently that it knew very well what to do with such things if he would only let it. Meanwhile, his mind stood aside, aghast, and reminded him in a scandalized screech that he had no idea who this young female was, and therefore the last place he should have his hand or any other part of his anatomy was  _there_.

His anatomy didn't listen. Six helped kindle it by worming her hand under his crotch-veil and stroking his flesh in slow, teasing pushes.

"Oh, that's..." he groaned, "...yes...oh, if you don't stop...I..."

"I know, I know," she assured, rubbing her nose against his, and sliding down to nuzzle his nipples. "You want to save it for your seventh. We all do. Luckily, we're almost there." She pulled his hand out of her tunic, clucking her tongue in reluctance, and then removed the veil on his free arm. "I like the look of that," she observed, and dragged his arm up to the other bedpost, and tied it there with the veil. "I bet your seventh will, too."

"If Seven is the last," he said, "will they set the hourglass as well?"

"No," she said, tightening the knot on his wrist. "Seven lasts all night, if you want 'em to. We're done setting time limits now." The shadow that was Six leaned down, and ran her hands luxuriantly up and down Frodo's bare torso. "Have a good time, sir. I know I shall."

"Thank you," Frodo said, but now he had begun trembling. This was the moment of truth. If Seven wasn't Sam, it would be too upsetting to bear. But if it  _was_  Sam...then that was practically too terrifying to think about.

The door closed. Frodo held still and listened. He strained to see through the black veil. If his hands had been free, he would have torn it off; rules be damned. A shadow shifted, and a step approached.

"Who's there?" Frodo whispered.

A finger touched his lips. A knee sank onto the mattress beside him. He felt a touch on one of his tied arms, and heard a breath of chuckling.

"Sam?" Frodo ventured.

"Shh," echoed a whisper, and lips met his mouth. The kiss was gentle but determined, pushing Frodo down into the blankets, urging the tension out of him. The lad felt right, he smelled right (even under that tangy grape-leaf smell), but, oh, why couldn't Frodo's hands be free, to touch his form and make sure? Frodo tried in vain to tug loose one of his wrists, whimpering in frustration.

Seven settled himself down upon Frodo's hips, and ran the backs of his fingers up Frodo's right arm. "Don't like being tied?" he whispered.

The voice settled Frodo's doubts--almost. "Sam," he breathed again.

"No names," murmured the voice, sounding amused. It could have been Sam--but then it also could have been someone who happened to sound like Sam. Or was trying to sound like Sam. "Now let's see," the Seventh continued softly. "Is it better for me if you're tied, or untied?"

"You can take off my blindfold," Frodo said. "You're the seventh. Please. Let me see you."

"Eh..." He seemed to be considering. His finger trailed down Frodo's chest to the last green veil. "There's this one to take off, first."

"But--" Frodo began. He was cut off by the lad bending down and kissing him again. An arm slipped under Frodo's back to support him, bringing their chests up flush. Oh, yes--that form felt like Samwise; strong, just the right size, softly padded in a few pleasing places. And he was kissing Frodo, kissing him with tongue, kissing him very well, kissing him when Frodo was nearly naked... Frodo gave in to the embrace, wrapping a leg around his companion and pushing the tunic up with his foot.

The lad chuckled. "I'll get that out of your way." He sat up. Frodo felt the weight shifting on the mattress, and heard a slither of cloth. When the fellow lay down beside him again, Frodo gasped: naked skin touched him, from toe to shoulder. Most notably, a solid and complicated bundle of flesh pressed his bare thigh. And started moving, very slowly. Frodo's breath quickened along with his partner's.

"Please," Frodo whispered. "Sam, please..." He tugged again at his arm restraints. One seemed a bit loose, but it still didn't give.

The Seventh had begun suckling at Frodo's earlobe, while sliding a hand from Frodo's arm down to his hip. Now the hand fumbled at the veil there, and found the tucked-in end of it, and pulled it free. "Have to get this off you first," murmured that husky voice. "Lift them hips, now."

Frodo, who had too long been cursing the tight wrap he had given himself, complied with joy, pushing upward. Sam--if it was Sam--unraveled the veil with torturous slowness, and finally pulled it free. Frodo let his hips fall back to the mattress, and groaned in relief at feeling the blood rush to swell him even further. His companion was silent for a moment, as if gazing, and then Frodo heard a choked-off sound of desire, and felt a thrust of renewed strength against his leg.

"You can touch me, Sam," Frodo begged, bringing up one thigh to spread himself open. "I'd like it, if you want..."

"No names," the voice whispered, but fingers trailed down his shaft, cupped him beneath, and rolled him gently in a sweat-dampened palm.

"But I  _know_  it's you," Frodo said, pulling desperately at his tied wrists. "Oh...oh, that feels good..." One wrist was almost free...almost...though who could think about wrists when someone was doing  _that_  to you?

The movement along his leg was faster now, and the voice breathier when it said, "I've an idea you might like." The weight shifted again as the lad leaned over him and fetched something from beside the bed. There was a pause in the movement, then small sounds, as if he was readying some item. Meanwhile, Frodo tried to wriggle that wrist loose. If he could just get an arm free and tear off his blindfold, and make sure it was Sam before devoting all his pent-up lust to the wrong person...

A finger slick with grapeseed oil slid under his groin, and pressed at a private and sensitive opening. Frodo caught his breath. The finger paused, as if awaiting his approval. With a moan, Frodo bent his knee farther out, urging admission. He heard a throaty utterance from his companion, as the finger entered and teased. Thrills blossomed throughout Frodo's body, emanating from the tiny spot.

"Oh please..." Frodo said. " _Please_ , let me touch you." His hand was almost out of that knot--the veil was slipping--

But the Seventh was faster. He shifted quickly, and with a puff of breath, blew out the candle at the bedside. A second later, Frodo yanked his hand free and tore the blindfold off his eyes. But he found himself blinking in darkness. The fire had gone down to mere red embers, far across the room, and without the candle there wasn't enough light to see by. They sat there motionless for a few seconds, breathing fast.

But Frodo had a free hand now, and he reached out until he found his companion's face, and trailed his fingers over it, and into his hair. Sam. It all felt like Sam--Sam, who modestly tried to duck away, but was constrained by the delicate place where he still had one of his fingers. With the other hand, he caught Frodo's questing arm, and whispered, "Please. No names. Please."

"But I know it's you," Frodo repeated, whispering as well.

"Do you?"

_Yes!_ , he wanted to answer impatiently. But instead he closed his mouth, and folded his hand around his friend's.

"All right," Frodo sighed. "All right."

If this was the only night Sam would ever consent to do this, then Frodo didn't want to ruin it by talking too much. Besides, it was servants' choice, wasn't it? And, really, the way Sam had curled his fingertip within Frodo just now--Frodo moaned and let his head fall to Sam's shoulder--that was worth enduring any number of strange rules. "Do it again," he requested, and Sam did, pushing deeper, rubbing harder against Frodo's leg.

"They say there's a spot," said Sam in a gruff whisper, "inside...that feels good to touch...is it there?" His fingertip stroked again, raising goosebumps all over Frodo's skin.

"Mmm...yes," breathed Frodo. "Right there. Untie my other arm? I need to touch you..."

"Reckon that's all right, now it's dark." With a small struggle and a few muttered curses, Sam got the knot undone, and Frodo twined both arms around him.

They fell back onto the blankets and grape leaves, mouths enmeshed, Sam's finger becoming bolder, his arousal sliding fast and hot against Frodo's thigh--he must have applied oil there too. Frodo bucked and cried out at a particularly exquisite twist inside him. He felt a leaf fall from the wreath in Sam's hair, jolted loose, brushing his cheek on the way down.

"Feels good, does it?" said Sam, breathless.

"Uh," was all Frodo could grunt, as an affirmative. He clasped Sam's head close, savoring the kiss, feeling the warm curls and tangled vines against his palm. His other hand wriggled down between them, and met with the oiled flesh pressing his leg. He caught it in a tight grip, and Sam shivered, moaning against Frodo's mouth.

Frodo swallowed, and tilted his head back just enough to say, "I've never done this, but...if I could have  _this_  inside me..." He squeezed for emphasis. "...I think I should enjoy it very much. Servants' choice, of course."

"Then my choice," whispered Sam, "is yes." And within seconds he was pulling himself up, planting Frodo's thighs apart with both hands, scrabbling for the bottle in the dark and pouring a new trickle of grapeseed oil down his fingers, into the crevice between Frodo's legs. It turned hot as soon as it touched him, and Frodo couldn't resist reaching down and drawing some of the extra drops upward, to rub along his aching flesh. He shuddered. Kind to the skin, indeed--Merry hadn't been exaggerating. "In," Frodo hissed. "Please."

"Yes, me dear."

Sam's knuckles bumped against him, as if he was steadying himself. Then Frodo felt firm, petal-soft, curved skin, which pushed and quickly became a solid invading entity, stopping an inch or so inside him. Frodo gasped at the pain, but soon the soothing dual warmth of oil and lust gentled him. His unintentional grip on Sam's hip relaxed. "Oh," he murmured.

Sam pushed in another inch, and let out his breath in a grunt. "Can you take that?" he asked, concern flickering into his voice.

Frodo tightened his muscles, squeezing what he held, making Sam moan. His hands slid down Sam's waist, and took hold of his rear, and tugged. "Deeper," he whispered.

Sam gave him another thrust, and this time Frodo felt the tickle of Sam's short hairs against him--he was in about as deep as he could go. "Oh, sir," Sam said in a desperate whimper.

"Do it," Frodo said. "Keep doing it."

Carefully, Sam slid out, then pushed back in. They moaned in unison. Sam's oiled hand grasped Frodo's erection, and stroked.

"Yes," Frodo gasped. "Keep...doing it..."

Sam bucked into him a second time, and a third, then faster, faster; Frodo lost count. He was swelling to rigidity in Sam's pumping grip. He found Sam's other hand braced against the mattress at his shoulder, and seized it tight, interlocking their fingers. The pressure built; he writhed and heard himself begging Sam for more, more, more; and then, at last, warmth pulsed out of him and spread down his belly. He stifled his cries by turning his face aside and biting Sam's wrist, hard. Sam made a noise of protest, but then he too was coming, jolting and trembling, a burst of heat inside Frodo.

They gradually thrashed to a stop. Sam drew his sticky hand away, and carefully pulled out. Frodo bit his lower lip at the residual tingle of pleasure stirred by the motion.

"I shall have to take home some grapeseed oil with me," he murmured, slurring his words, quite exhausted now.

Sam laughed softly, and pressed a bundle of cloth into his hand to clean up with--his servant tunic, from the feel of it. "I'm sure Mr. Merry will see that you do," he answered.

Frodo finished wiping himself off, and dropped the tunic beside them on the bed. "Lord, I'm tired," he sighed.

Sam sidled up to him, and drew a blanket up over them both. Cool crushed grape leaves pattered against Frodo's skin here and there. "Sleep, then."

Frodo smiled, and snuggled up to his warm friend. "Honestly," he mumbled, "I didn't know what to expect tonight. But...thank you."

"No, thank  _you_ ," Sam whispered.

Frodo hugged him closer, but only for a moment. He was so tired...

* * *

It was late in the morning when Frodo awoke. He was alone, but then he wasn't very surprised at that. Servants had things to do at horribly early hours. He had never envied them that. His head ached when he moved, and he grimaced, muttering curses about wine. He also found that he was naked, sticky, slippery, and plastered with wilted grape leaves, and that the sheets were in sore need of being washed. Looking around in dismay, he was relieved to find a clean, thick robe lying on a chair next to the bed. He hauled himself up and put this on, and shuffled to the wash-basin, tripping over a discarded veil on the way. He cursed again, this time targeting Merry and Brandy Hall and all the insane Bucklanders he couldn't believe he was related to.

However...in the middle of splashing his face with water, he smiled, and felt a pleasant tickle spiral from his stomach up his spine. Sam. Oh, Sam.

Tea had been left for him on a tray, with gentle food that over-imbibers might be able to face the next morning: bread, honey, fruit, and oatmeal. Frodo wasn't very hungry yet, but a sip of tea and a mouthful of bread did start to make his head feel better.

As he sat in a chair by the window with his mug, watching the lads down in the lawn roll away the new barrels of wine to the cellars, someone knocked at his door. He caught his breath. He didn't know yet what exactly he would say to Sam. "Come in," he called.

And, indeed, it was Sam--Sam, who glanced quickly at him once, his eyes still smudged with traces of ink, and then looked down. "I came to see how you were faring this morning, sir," he said, quite proper.

"Not too badly," Frodo answered. "Come in."

Sam nodded, and closed the door behind him. He moved swiftly to the breakfast tray, and knelt beside it. "Will you be wanting any more of this, sir?"

"Leave the strawberries; I'll have them. Grapes I think I've had enough of." Frodo was attempting merriment with the remark, but realized a moment late that it could sound entirely wrong--as if he had no desire of repeating the previous night.

Sam's spine seemed to stiffen, and he set aside the dish of strawberries on the desk near Frodo's knee. "Can I bring you anything else, then, sir?" He kept his eyes lowered, his back turned to Frodo.

Frodo felt it like a stab to the heart. He set his mug down beside the strawberries, delicately. "Sam, I didn't mean... I'm sorry." Sam said nothing; merely nodded, and continued collecting plates and silverware to stack on the tray.

"Did you sleep here all night?" Frodo asked gently. "I don't remember you getting up."

"Don't know what you mean, sir," came the cool answer.

That hurt even more. Frodo pressed his lips together, angry at the game, the stupid rules, the conventions of Brandy Hall that divided him from Sam when back home they were so close... Before Sam could stand up with the tray, Frodo got out of his chair and caught Sam's left wrist. Sam froze. Frodo pushed up the cuff, and revealed what he knew he would see: a curved line of bruise-colored tooth-marks. He lifted his eyes to Sam, who was now blushing and looked rather miserable. "Shall I hold them up to my mouth and see if they fit?" Frodo asked quietly.

Sam tugged his wrist away. "You know they would," he said, barely loud enough to hear.

"Exactly." Frodo fell to his knees beside Sam. "Then why? Why are you pretending it didn't happen? 'No names'? What on  _earth_ , Sam?"

"Because...because the things I was going to do..." Sam rubbed his eyes, as if his head hurt too. "I couldn't face you every day and have you _know_..."

Frodo nodded, after a moment. It was servants' choice. He had put the burden of the initiative on Sam; young, sweet, shy Sam. He had never meant to, but he had forced Sam's hand, and it was no wonder Sam was abashed.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said again. "I honestly didn't know what the party involved when I invited you. I wanted you, yes, very much, but I wouldn't have embarrassed you that way."

"I know," Sam mumbled.

Frodo took his hand, and smiled. "But you did it anyway. Even though you didn't have to."

Sam looked down at Frodo's fingers and answered softly, "And now you know. How wicked I am."

Frodo snorted. "No more wicked than  _I_ , Sam. If you think I was joking about wanting to bring home some grapeseed oil--well."

Sam dared a meek glance at Frodo, from his beautiful, tired, outlined eyes. "The servants here, they say...they say it's just that one night. Life's to go back to normal afterward."

"Well, I'm sure that's true," Frodo granted. "If you live at Brandy Hall."

Now Sam's expression was hopeful, and the breath he drew on parted lips made it irresistible for Frodo: he had to fall forward and kiss him. Sam was delicious, and willing, and it was at least a full minute before they found the need to speak again.

When Frodo next opened his eyes and took stock of their position, he found he was sitting in Sam's lap, upon the floor, securely ensconced in his arms.

"All the servants wanted you for their seventh," Sam confided, eyes sparkling now.

"Oh, they did not," said the flattered Frodo, batting him on the back of the head.

"Swear it's true. Maybe not  _all_ , but a great number of 'em. I had first pick, though, being the one you invited. I'm not supposed to tell you any of this. It's supposed to be all secret-like, the way they work out who visits who."

"Did you visit anyone else?"

"Aye. Some of the female cousins as seemed approachable. A couple of the menfolk as well. I was Mr. Pippin's second, but don't tell him. I don't think he knew."

Frodo, after gaping in a flare of jealousy, broke into helpless laughter, and rested his forehead on Sam's chest.

"Most of the time," Sam went on, grinning, "I just asked them what they liked, so I could have some things to try on you."

"You didn't...Pippin..." Frodo managed, before bursting into giggles again.

"Ah, you were a thousand times better. Nothing to worry about, sir."

"Oh...no, I'm not worried. Not anymore." Frodo wiped his eyes. "And you can be sure no one else was anywhere near as good as you, either. Nor would I wish to take them home with me."

"Got a few little bottles to take with us," Sam commented. "Not all of 'em wine, either."

"I hear grapeseed oil is quite good to cook with," Frodo said, his hand curling to caress Sam's ear.

"Aye," Sam agreed, slipping a hand into Frodo's robe, fingertips ghosting over a nipple. "Been meaning to experiment with it."

"One thing," Frodo suggested, giving Sam a light kiss. "From now on, we do not let the Brandybucks set behavioral rules for us."


End file.
